


let the saints all burn in hell

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Breaking Bad AU, where Skyler is the one who starts cooking and selling meth with Jesse Pinkman, leaving Walter unaware of the circumstances</p>
            </blockquote>





	let the saints all burn in hell

He tells her about his cancer, tells her around hacking coughs and guttering breaths. She looks at the floor, looks at him. He runs a hand through his hair and she thinks that soon he will be running a hand over a bald pate instead. She thinks of the bills, thinks of his teacher’s salary, of the money they don’t have.  
  
Skyler has never imagined herself leading a life of crime, but when she looks at her house, at her family, she thinks that sometimes, crime might be the only way. She didn’t ask for this choice, but it’s a choice she has to make, nonetheless. She’s a matriarch, she has to be the one to do the difficult things. And she thinks of all the times Hank talks about the money in the drug business, hating how profitable it is. Profitable is something she could use right now.  
  
She brings it up casually over dinner, works it in as though she didn’t really care. “Hank’s working on this big meth case.” It doesn’t mean anything, because Hank’s always working on some big case. This just happens to be meth. “There’s a lot of science involved in that isn’t there?” She loves the look in his eye when there’s a new problem to be solved, and she hasn’t seen that look any time recently.  
  
She’s planted the seed in his head. He’s thinking about meth, merely from a science perspective. She’s thinking of it from a business perspective. And she looks over his notes, an equation to work out, a process to understand. She almost feels as though she’s taking advantage of him. He is still just a high school chemistry teacher. He looks so small, sitting in the doctor’s chair, a needle in his arm. She squeezes his hand gently and mentally calculates how much meth she needs to sell to cover this visit. She’s always been good with numbers.  
  
The real difficulty is finding a place to cook. She’s picked up the terminology - read articles on Wikipedia, always careful to clear her browser history. She thinks she’ll have to find a partner, and she’s not entirely sure how to go about that. It’s not like she could place an ad in the paper or put up a sign on a bulletin board at the laundromat.   
  
Hank comes to the rescue, in an unexpected way. He’s telling them all, over dinner, about his latest bust, and the missing Jesse Pinkman, the man they were looking for. “Must’ve gotten a head’s up or something,” Hank says, as though it’s no problem; he’s confident they’ll catch him eventually. Skyler can only hope he’s wrong.  
  
“Pinkman - he was a student of mine. Awful at chemistry,” Walt says as he picks at his food, stabbing a piece of broccoli and examining it as though it were an especially interesting specimen. Skyler recognizes the danger of using a man known by the police as a cook, however small-time, but she thinks this is the opening she’s needed, that this is her chance to find a way in.  
  
He’s easy enough to find. For some reason, she thought that someone selling meth would be more under the radar, and not listed in the phone book. But, sure enough, when she knocks on the door that night, Walt’s notes in hand, he opens it, looking at her with puzzlement in his piercing blue eyes.   
  
“I need your help,” she says, but he doesn’t open the door any wider, giving her no leeway.  
  
“Sorry, lady. If your car broke down, I don’t know nothing about fixing cars. Try next door.” He makes as if to close the door, but her hand slams into the wood, keeping it open.  
  
“It’s not my car. It’s...” This is where she falters. She, Skyler White, has never done anything bad or wrong in her life, and here she is, breaking the law on her first time out. “I need someone to help me cook meth.” She’s always been blunt, it’s served her well in life; perhaps it will serve her well here.  
  
“Lady...” He doesn’t know what to say to her, she can tell.  
  
“I’m not a cop. I just. I just need money. Fast.” She can hear the desperation edging into her voice. “I have a - a recipe. A good one.” She holds up Walt’s notebook, hoping that her husband won’t notice it’s gone. She’s looked over his thoughts, his detailed plans. He’s gotten it down to as much of a science as he could, without doing it himself, and she hopes he would never do it himself - he’s too careless, too foolhardy. He hitches the cart before the horse, and she’s always wanted to tame the horse first.  
  
“A recipe? Lady, this isn’t a bakery.” He starts to close the door again, but now she’s edged her foot past the jamb. She’s not leaving without an answer in the affirmative.   
  
“It’s not that kind of recipe,” she says through gritted teeth. “It’s for -” her eyes dart around, as if Hank might pop out from the bushes “-for meth.”  
  
His eyes widen and meet hers. And then he opens the door to let her in. His house is dingy, worn. It doesn’t speak to the life of a successful drug dealer, but she’s come too far now.   
  
They sit in silence. She doesn’t know how to start the discussion, doesn’t even know where to begin. She’s clutching the notebook tightly, as though the secrets Walt has written down might escape from the pages. “I have the recipe,” she starts, “I just need...some assistance.” She’s choosing her words carefully, imagining this conversation being rehashed in an interrogation room at the police station.  
  
“With what?” He’s not giving her an inch, but she doesn’t blame him.   
  
“Production. Distribution. I can...cook. I just don’t know how to get it...where it needs to go.” She isn’t sure she can cook, but showing any weakness now is not the way to go. She needs to do this for her family, she cannot show any holes in her armor.  
  
“ _I_ can cook. Why is this different than what’s already out there?” He leans towards her, he’s interested now. She’s got his attention.  
  
“This is based in science and chemistry. It’s going to be better than anything else out there. More...more pure.” She fumbles for the right words, the words that will make him agree. “We can make a small batch, so you can see.” This is assuming she can get the supplies they need. “You know the business, I know the chemistry.”  
  
He looks doubtful, but like he’s coming around. She’s pleading with her eyes and she can see him softening. “I can get a place to cook. You get the supplies,” he relents, finally, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.  
  
“Two days.” She thinks of what she’ll need to get, wonders if she can get into Walt’s lab somehow. She can borrow his keys, tell everyone she’s picking up the things he’d forgotten. It scares her a little, how easy this plotting, this lying, comes to her. She’s logical and pragmatic, and if anything, that’s something that the meth business could use.  
  
She is in a constant state of nervousness; every time the phone rings, she lunges for it. She thinks she might have to get a second cell phone, isn’t sure how she’ll hide it from Walt. She still holds his hand while he goes through his treatments, but now she checks her watch, a silent countdown until Jesse Pinkman calls.  
  
And when he does call, it’s anticlimactic. Skyler had imagined a furtive phone call full of double meanings and whispered meeting times. What actually happens is that Jesse gives her an address, complete with a ‘yo,’ a habit she finds irritating, and a meeting time, and then hangs up without another word. She supposes that it’s better to keep things simple and quick, rather than to increase the chance of someone overhearing.  
  
She parks a block away from the address Jesse gave her. She’s wearing sunglasses and a fedora she found in the back of her closet. She’s pretty sure she looks ridiculous, but all the same, she can’t be too careful. Anyone could be watching, and she doesn’t want her face to be easy to see.  
  
Jesse eyes her when he sees her. He’s put off by the fedora, she can tell. It’s too late now, though. She’s committed to the hat, however silly it may be. She has a bag full of chemistry supplies, taken from Walt’s school. There’s more in the trunk, but she didn’t want to carry it all this way and make a scene. Flasks and beakers clink against each other. Jesse motions to the Winnebago parked in front of an unobtrusive suburban home.   
  
“There?” Skyler is incredulous. She’s never seen anything less sterile in her life, and she feels like a clean environment is necessary for the work they’re doing.  
  
“There,” Jesse confirms. “We drive it out to the desert. Privacy, yo.” His thuggish attitude is so unappealing to Skyler. She shrugs and hands him the bag, heading back to her car to get the rest of the supplies.   
  
The drive is silent. Jesse tries to put on music, Skyler stops his hand before he can even turn up the volume. She looks out the window, sees the city sloping away into desert, a wide expanse of space. She feels freer, as though she’s escaped the domineering gaze of some unknown force. The police don’t know she’s out here, they don’t know she’s planning anything. The fact that they’ve already gotten this far seems like a success.  
  
They cook. Jesse cooks. Skyler instructs. She’s not sure of all the right things to do, trusting Walt’s notes implicitly. He’s the one manipulating tubes and chemicals. She’s standing by, watching his every move, committing it to memory. She’ll need to know this later.  
  
When they’re done, they’re both hot and tired. Skyler’s rolled up her sleeves, unbuttoned her shirt enough that Jesse’s eyes occasionally linger on her exposed skin. He’s lost his bulky jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up. And he bends down to look at the meth he’s made. The meth  they’ve made. Skyler is a part of this now, and there’s no going back.  
  
“You tell your husband he’s an artist,” Jesse breathes. “This shit is pure.”  
  
Skyler feels a sense of relief wash over her. This is real, this is something they can do. They’ve made pure shit. A snorting giggle escapes from her at the thought. “Pure shit,” she says out loud and another burbles out of her. Jesse looks at her as though he’s worried for her sanity.   
  
“Let’s get back. Gotta find someone to sell this for us.” He’s already headed to the driver’s seat as Skyler attempts to regain some semblance of calm about herself. Her part is done, for now. She can rest easy, wait for the money to come in. Pay off some bills. She starts to plan what she’ll tell Walt, about the job she’ll say she’s gotten, about the coworkers she’ll say she’s met. A whole new life built on lies and drugs.  
  
But better that than a life without Walt, she thinks. Another laugh breaks from her as Jesse starts the engine and turns the Winnebago around. They begin to drive back towards the city, buildings emerging from the horizon. They are driving towards something dangerous, something tentative, something new. A new life.


End file.
